Though My Hands May Bleed And Burn
by sillivan
Summary: Excerpt from If I Should Die Before I Wake. Adult, sex. Well, it's essentially a "Methos takes a Dark Quickening" story, and the results are not pretty. Also features the Holy Hot Spring.


He caught her firm, conical breast in his right hand and sucked the nipple into his mouth, flicking it rapidly with his tongue. He toyed with her swollen, hard clitoris as he thrust upwards into her. Her fingers dug into his hair, pulling him hard against her chest as she rode him, gasping. He would not be able to hold out much longer, especially as her free hand scraped across his chest, setting off a burning sensation. The sweet welcome of her body, its slick juices enhancing the feeling of their joining, called him on. He groaned as he felt her begin to tremble, her cunt squeezing tight around him. He thrust hard as he could as her body wrenched into orgasm and he followed her there.

The trees above shaded them from the afternoon sunlight. Breezes wended merrily through the underbrush around them. The glade was lovely, green and cool. It provided some distance from the howl of forest animals and gave them space to cuddle and then to make love, and they happily had used it.

She slumped over him with a happy sigh and he wrapped his arms around her, satiated. "You know," he whispered into the thick mass of her hair, "we really MUST break this habit of yours."

She laughed. "Which habit, Methos?"

"The one where you seduce your opponent when it's clear you are losing. It just won't do in a normal challenge."

She stretched against him, purring like a lioness. "But I've only ever fought YOU, teacher."

"Oh, is it teacher you call me now? I'm not much of a teacher. I let my student have her way far too often to be very effective." He inhaled the scent of the sweet oil she always worked into her hair. It was such a wonderful smell that spoke of this land. Her warm, dark, curvy body contrasted so against his pale skin and angled planes. He could lose himself in the contemplation of her perfection. She had been seventeen when she died, drowned in the river. Four years married with no sign of pregnancy had led her to suicide.

He stroked her wide cheekbones, lost in the contemplation of her bright brown eyes. She grinned and shook her head at him. "Perhaps so, since you allow yourself to be distracted so easily."

He smiled back at her. "Not that easily. It's time for your casting exercises."

She groaned and rolled her eyes.

Methos rolled her over onto her back and tried to communicate his seriousness to her. "You have the talent! You need every advantage you can get in the Game if you want to survive." He was desperate for her to develop all of her abilities. She was a small woman and not inclined to take the Game seriously. Of course, she was only twenty years old. Her special talents should be developed while she still had the flexibility of her mortal life; it would get more difficult to change as she accumulated years of experience.

"If they're so important, why don't YOU do them?"

He felt himself go hot under her gaze. "I don't have the gifts, not the way you do. That's why I'm taking you to -" he used the term her people used, because it was the only one that implied the distance they were traveling, "- the Ghost Lands. You HAVE memorized the routes, haven't you?"

She writhed out from under him and assumed the meditative position best suited to casting. She pouted at him, shoving her lower lip out comically. "Yes, I have. The two simple routes, the six difficult alternate paths in case of fire, flood or earthquake, the fastest route. In case we are separated. You are SO meticulous! Don't you leave ANYTHING to chance?"

He returned her glare with his best stern expression. "No. And neither would you if you were my age." He could have disciplined himself into using what talents like hers he had, but he disliked turning his mind loose of the physical world. He could not shake the fear that he might get lost out there. So he stayed firmly rooted in his flesh, the ground solid beneath his feet. He did not want visions and prophecies; there were plenty of other people out there who could have them if they wanted them. Methos watched Chichinquane fold back into position, her breathing steadying and her eyes shuttering closed. Her presence slowly blossomed outwards and he was aware of her in a vague way all around him.

He had taken her as far as he could in her gifts. Titania, one of the eight Immortals in his age group, could teach her more. Titania, the Healer. Address: Pool of Dreams, Underland, Ghost Lands.

He laughed to himself. The people on the next continent gave this distant land much the same kind of names. There were beliefs prevalent in many groups that if you traveled far enough you would come to the land of the dead. The gods knew Methos had tried in his early life. He had never found the lovers or teachers he had lost over the many years; instead he had found new and remarkable peoples. Curiosity had replaced the anguish of loss, and he had never stopped wandering.

He had taught Chichinquane what he remembered of that region's language. If she did have to go on her own, she would get by. Live as much as you can, for as long as you can, young one, he thought. Though, he added to himself, she would not like the weather in those northern climes.

The sense of her presence faded as she reached farther out. He sat and watched her, waiting. That was no arduous task. She was still naked and her flesh shone from their lovemaking. He reached into his carry-basket and dug out the carefully protected, supple material he wrote on. One of these days, within a few years, he would have to make some more. Over the centuries he had made writing sheets out of hundreds of materials. ANYthing could be turned to the purpose, though durability of the material was extremely important to him. He had stashes of his writings here and there. He never said at the end of them where he was going, but he always said at the beginning where he had been. Perhaps someday, after he was dead, some other Immortal would discover them and backtrack the path of his wanderings. He settled the paper and his writing quill and began to draw a portrait of her.

When he finished, he sat back to study what he had done. He laughed at himself wryly. He was not much of an artist, but the picture did carry a great deal of Chichinquane's vitality, regardless of how little it looked like her. It was so difficult to draw the curves, the texture of her flesh. Perhaps he would make a sculpture of her when they were settled at the Pool of Dreams. Her presence suddenly boomed through him and he looked up at her gasp.

She leapt to her feet and staggered, her arms waving, her expression wild. "Methos!" she cried out. He was already there, wrapping his arms around her and anchoring her to the real world. She repeated his name, clinging to him and pressing her face against his chest.

"I'm here. You're here, we are together," he told her urgently, stroking her body. He would help her return to the physical as best he could. "You went out too far, that's all. Sh, sh, sh."

"No, not that. Something..." she stuttered to a halt, her arms around his waist. Her stance became less panic stricken and more protective as she angled her body to guard his. She lifted her head to look around, bewildered. "It seemed so close."

"What was it?" he asked, amused by her protectiveness.

"I touched something horrible. It was murderous and poisonous and... and HUNGRY." She shivered. "I don't know, I think it was aware of me but so uncontrolled it could not reach me. A hungry ghost."

"And you said the casting exercises were useless, Chichi." He glanced around and snatched up their clothing, tossing hers to her.

She caught them, her eyes blazing with indignation. "I am TWENTY years old and already have died once! Stop calling me by a childhood diminutive!" He opened his mouth to protest innocently and her glare, incredibly enough, became more piercing. "Chipfalamfula may put up with it when you call him 'Chippy', but I won't stand for it!"

In her indignation she had forgotten the sick horror and her skin had regained it's healthy, dark hue. Methos grinned unrepentantly at her. "Right, I'll remember that. Now, as there are seasonal factors to take into consideration, we must continue on our journey." He wanted them on the move. Whether Chichinquane had sensed a crazed mortal or another Immortal, her talents were not developed enough to pinpoint the source's location. Clothed and mobile would be far better for meeting such an enemy.

A quick consideration of past experiences caused him to discount the idea that it might be a demon. It was the wrong century for the major ones, and the wrong season for the minor ones. The fact that most Immortals had no personal experiences with such beings was a subject of great debate, particularly when the older ones encountered each other. Titania, for one, proposed that the nature of Immortality, the aura that warned them of each other, might form a ward against such supernatural beings. Methos had never had any encounters at all and was beginning to doubt such things really existed. He had on too many occasions found supposed demons were merely other Immortals, like Chipfalamfula. Chichinquane's tribe considered Chippy a river-demon, when he was really an Immortal who dressed himself in fish and crocodile skins.

* * *

They rode their asses, headed ever north. Four days later they encountered another Immortal. His presence rang through them even as theirs touched him. That bizarre undertow of like calling to like. Unlike them, he rode a horse. He was a huge broad-shouldered man. Golden-haired, blue-eyed, a blond beard. His skin was a shade or so darker than Methos'. He regarded the two of them from atop his horse. It was a big animal, its withers coming up to Methos' chest.

His gaze licked contemptuously over Methos and lit on Chichinquane, to settle with narrowed interest. She recognized the look and glared back at him. He smiled and turned his gaze on Methos. "You look like you might speak a civilized language." Incongruously, he had a deep, pleasant voice. There was a cold undercurrent to it, though.

Methos recognized the language, though some of the tones were off. Older or younger, he wondered. "There's civilized and then there's civilized," he replied in the same speech. "I am Methos. Have you come for me?" Disliking the man, he moved faster than he might have, his blade drawn and ready.

"Anxious to die, little man? She looks like quite a prize. Too defiant, but that can be changed."

Methos gritted his teeth, his agile mind already ticking off points on the way the man sat. He felt his nose wrinkle, betraying his anger. "I like her that way. Who are you?"

"I am Woden."

The name struck a cord, and Methos stiffened. "Funny, you don't look at all like your reputation."

The man uttered a bear of a laugh. "Oh, but I do! I've given up the priesthood, boy! There's no fun in it! And I've had great fun since then." He leered at Chichinquane, who was not at all amused and for whom the conversation was largely incomprehensible. Then his gaze came back sharply to the man guarding her. "Methos the Wanderer? Old enough to make taking your head worth my time."

"The Woden I've heard of is a healer. Lives somewhere on the west coast in the far north. If you think I'm going to believe you're him..." Methos was not one to make assumptions. Either this man really was Woden and everything other Immortals believed about him was a lie, or he was pretending to be. In which case it was not a very good pretense, because he revealed before identifying himself that he was trash of the first order.

The man hooted from his horse. "Oh, but I AM him! It feels so good to have shed the trappings of Holy Ground! I've taken six heads since, and one of them was a wonderfully old one: Iace. I believe you know her, she said you were a hell of a tumble in the furs!"

Methos allowed the shock to pass through him and settle. It did not matter if Iace was dead or not. This man was attempting to use her to rattle him. He urged his ass forward. "Don't even say her name!" he snapped. Let the fool think he was angry. He was centered and ready to fight. Chichinquane would see her first Quickening this day.

They kicked their animals into a run towards each other. The horse was steady. Methos' ass swerved in alarm as the larger animal came at it. He had been expecting that. He swung his arm out and cut the horse's jugular vein. He could hear the man swearing as the horse fell. Methos urged the ass around to attack. The man aimed a wild swing at the ass, and Methos deflected it aside and jumped off to fight on his feet. Woden put considerable force into his blows and was not without skill. A formidable adversary. Methos' young student would either be broken or lose her head if this man took her from him. Methos grinned, his blood singing. Every once in a while he fought someone who he was truly happy to go all out against. Truly happy to kill. This man was one of them, and Methos would enjoy the fight.

Move like a cobra, but always remember the cobra can be tamed. Think himself like a mongoose, all quick and deadly teeth. Strength not so important as cunning and agility. Do not let the attack fall into a pattern unless the pattern is intended to throw off the opponent.

The world vanished as the two men fought. Blood spattered the ground and neither man cared whose it was. Methos won. In a sweep, the other man's head was his. Breathing hard, he rolled his shoulders and bowed his head, waiting for the Quickening.

A lick of fire and he gasped with the brilliance of the pain. Then bolts of light leaped from the ground and tore at him. Pain soared and images whirled past the focus of his thoughts. Yes, Woden had taken Iace's head. She had trusted him and he killed her. But there were other things. A life of service revealed to be wasteful and pointless. Deaths, fighting other Immortals and slowly changing. Methos breathed deeply. Change was inevitable. You had to live through it. You had to let it happen because there was NOTHING you could do to stop it.

A strange tingling seemed to start at the edge of his thoughts, then an ache seeped into him. And suddenly it was happening very quickly. He had seen mortals whose bodies were rotting around them. This was just like that. Gashes seemed to open in the core of his being, and corruption poured into him. At first he was too confused to fight. Then he began to struggle. Bits of him shattered. The crushing feeling moved deeper. It touched his core and came into him. It was a terrifying rape. The hard, hot burn reached completely through his body. He was on fire, struggling to hold himself together. He felt parts of himself burst. The feeling was almost physical. I'm going to die, he suddenly thought.

That which had burst and broken inside him was drawn together with the poison. More things shattered and Methos stared as the poison began to form a shape, taking on a sinisterly familiar outline. He realized that he was going to be destroyed and this fetch would take his place. "NO! I want to live!" he shouted desperately, but the agony had no answer for him. He attacked the developing shape and fought to absorb it back into himself. He stopped fighting the poison, dropping all of his barriers and opening wide. I want to live! He fought and absorbed the poison despite his pain until at last it was all within him and he was intact and whole.

* * *

"Methos?" came Chichinquane's soft voice.

Dizzy, he opened his eyes. Night had fallen. The ground around him was scorched, flames still licked at some of the tree roots. He inhaled deeply and tasted the scent of blood in the air, proof of his victory. Beside him his prize. The dizziness faded as hunger began to take its place. She was a dark creature, warm in the cooling air. He grabbed for her, startling her and she jerked back, but he had her arms. Delicious smooth skin over firm muscle. He drank it in, eyes skimming her body. She seemed confused, but made no other attempt to struggle. Why should she, when she was his, won in combat. If she angered him, he could always take her Quickening. But oh, her body was nice. He slid his hand under her wrap, up between her thighs to her entry, and she gasped. He hissed in anticipation. She was moist and hot and his. The hunger flared and blazed. He tore her wrap away and pushed her down, entering her quickly. She began to struggle to get away, looking confused and frightened.

"Why are you doing this?!" she cried.

As the pleasure rose and seared through him, he thought that was a ridiculous question. She should not be speaking to him anyway, except in thanks for killing Woden. To his surprise, she began fighting him fiercely. The twisting of her hips was a delight to him as he drove into her, but her struggles were annoying. He struck her as hard as he could, three times. Each time the flare of his strength exhilarated him. The helpless jerks of her body under his made his head sing. She did not cry out or lose consciousness. Instead she finally accepted her place and stopped resisting him. Her legs spread wider, making it easier to drive into her. She arched her hips up to meet his thrusts. Oh yes, he thought as she twisted up to him, I knew you wanted it. The singing of his blood peaked. He groaned as he came, then relaxed onto her body.

Her arms moved to hold him, then something hard and sharp struck the back of his head. The stars came down from the sky and danced for him in the tiny space of time before everything went black.

He regained consciousness trying to fight only to find himself tied hand and foot on his back. His arms stretched above his head, his feet were tied apart. He could get no leverage to pull against his bonds and snarled in impotent fury at the sensation of another Immortal approaching. It was HER, Chichinquane. She tested the bonds on his wrists, her worried eyes flickering down to meet his.

"You'll let me go if you know what's good for you," Methos growled.

Strangely, this brought a half-hearted smile to her lips. She spoke gently. "I DO know what's good for me, teacher."

Methos grappled with himself. He widened his eyes to appear innocent. She was his student, after all. "Untie me, please, Chichi?"

She sat on the wooden strut of the litter she must have built and stared him in the eye. There were tearstains on her face. Soft, girl, malleable! he thought. He did not let his thoughts reach his face. It was she who dropped her gaze after a short time. She said softly, "I can hear it in your voice. You're possessed."

And she would not listen to him when he told her he was not.

She traveled north, to the edge of the continent that would come to be known as Africa, traveled the routes Methos had taught her. The two asses, one dragging Methos' litter, were steady, well-trained animals. Every night she told him legends and sang him songs. Sometimes she made love to him. She took no chances, killing him when she had to, so that she could renew his bonds.

The time and the boredom got to him, and he told her legends of places he had traveled, of Immortals like Molumbu and even Woden. He tried to explain to her how Woden had given up his life as a holy man when he saw its pointlessness, and had been driven out of his own land (Methos was not sure of the circumstances, but that was the impression he had received during the Quickening). He tried to convince her to join forces with him. They could live a life of riches and luxury. That idea had occurred to him after a time. He wanted less to have her as a slave and more to have a lover and partner. Alone, it was too easy to be driven away from the places and things you loved. He had been so driven, or fled in the past. He would never flee again. The memories of regret or lost love had no emotional content any more. It was as though a huge burden had lifted from him. He would have felt free, except that he was bound, physically.

She refused to see it that way. She kept insisting that it was not he speaking. He insisted back that it WAS he speaking. There was no such thing as possession, people just used that as an excuse to do what they wanted, but he was Immortal and did not need to make excuses.

She chartered a boat and crossed the sea to the great outcropping of land on which a nation called Rome would someday rise. By dint of the strength of her personality and the trading skills of her people, she was not asked many questions. The boatmen would glance with curiosity at the bound man, but like all mortals had a considerable lack of interest in helping a stranger. On north, but also more westerly. They came to the mass of land that would someday be France.

Methos fell asleep on the last leg of the journey. There was not much else to do, tied hand and foot. The doubled impact of other Immortals approaching woke him. Titania and Chichinquane moved into his line of sight and came to stand on opposite sides of him. Looking at them, he wanted to have his paper and draw the contrast of the two. They were fairly close in height, but Titania was a creature of sharp, searing bone structure, incredibly fair with thin lips and a high-bridged nose. Her hair was a peculiar red-gold. Chichinquane, with her rich, dark brown skin, was all curves and firm roundness, and of course dark, tight curls.

They stared down at him, Chichinquane with a kind of grim desperation, Titania with mingled dismay and resignation. Maybe he could use that. There was nothing wrong with him, after all. From the looks of things, the two women had been talking for a long time. Chichi had left him, unattended - well, perhaps attended by mortals - while she chatted with Titania! He glared at her in outrage. She flicked her thumb at him from her chin, her people's gesture of defiance.

He shifted his head to gaze in desperation to Titania. "Make her let me go! It was the first Quickening she ever saw and now she thinks I'm possessed! Did she tell you how long she's kept me like this?" He waved his hands and jerked his feet. He opened his eyes wide and gazed up at her. "I haven't even been able to update my journals! I will go insane if I haven't already!"

Titania's grim expression cracked and she smiled slightly. "Only you would consider not being able to write a valid excuse for insanity."

Chichinquane looked dismayed herself. "He's lying! He IS possessed!"

Titania shook her head. "No, he's not lying. He is whole."

"But -"

Titania cut her off with a finger laid on her lips. "Come with me. My attendants will see to Methos."

They released him from the ties and he stood up shakily. If there were any point to it, he would have killed the ass. He eyed the mortal attendants and imagined the pleasure of killing them instead. He was presently weaponless, and while he could easily have killed them, he would then have to face Titania. That was not something he could do without a weapon, especially if she was angry. She had not reached the thousand-year mark by simply being a priestess. The men and women ushered him into a hut.

A change of clothes! Chichinquane had resorted to keeping him naked and wrapped in furs most of the time. These clothes were at least civilized, woven material. Probably sheep unless things had changed since the last time he was around. No, it was sheep. The middle kingdoms, Egypt, that he had once loved 'til it proved itself as inconstant as the rest of the mortal world, where the mortal kings built themselves great pyramidal tombs, tended to make much of their clothing from plant fibers. Though interesting, that was not suited to the cold climate of this region. The realization that he was at last free hit him again, and he rushed out to the ass that was carrying his supplies to dig through them. The paper and writing quills in his hands for the first time in months, he sat down with a sigh. Everything was suddenly right in the world. Titania would show Chichinquane that he was not possessed, then he would take Chichi and they would discover how many ways they could live powerfully off the mortal world.

In the meantime, he wrote. He started with his observation that they were still dressing in sheep-hair fabric at the Pool of Dreams. Then he went on to write down the more interesting of the legends Chichinquane had told him. With so much in his head, he did not stop until his fingers began to cramp, by which time the sun was setting and it was becoming difficult to see.

Presence touched him as he was rubbing the webbing between his fingers. He looked up to find Titania approaching him. He set his papers aside and stood quickly. "I want my sword." A new itch had begun as soon as he sensed her. He wanted her Quickening.

"Not yet," she told him. "You must go dream walking."

"What? Why?!" He had backed several steps from her before he realized it and held his ground. "No."

She regarded him blandly. "It is the only way Chichinquane will believe you are not possessed."

He glared at her. "Dream walking is for madmen, so they can find themselves and become whole again. I am not mad!"

"You have never dream walked. It is not only for the mad. Even the sane can find themselves."

"Or LOSE themselves," Methos growled. He found he could not continue to hold her steady gaze. His pulse pounded and his fingers twisted, wanting to hold a sword and fight her. Or perhaps to do something quite different with her. He held his breath to control his beating heart and closed his thoughts away. Titania was no inexperienced child. Her power was full and strong. She might decide he was a threat before he was in a position to take her.

"Dream walking," he cursed.

* * *

"You enter the pool," Titania told him. "The magic will do the rest."

The rough-hewn walls curved to the roof of the chamber. Torch light reflected off the dark water. It all looked so ordinary. He had thought that before. Yet strange, invisible things happened here. He hesitated, turning his head to meet Chichinquane's eyes where she stood the other side of Titania. At the very least, this would prove that he was not possessed. Then he would take her away from this place before she could become Titania's student. She returned his gaze with her own clear pleading. So young. He turned away, drew his breath and stepped down into the water.

He was alone in the chamber and the water glowed an eerie blue-white. It swirled around him. He drew in a breath and almost coughed. He felt hollow, his throat bewildered by the passage of air down it. A new sensation. It was as though his skin was stretching and pricklings pushed at him. He looked down and was surprised not to see tiny bristles poking out of him. As the sensation increased, he began to feel frightened. He was going to burst apart! He fought it, clutching himself and balling up. A gibbering noise from inside him as his guts twisted. The pressures were sharp or simply deep at alternate moments. "No," he whispered. "I will not be destroyed."

Titania's voice came from behind him. "Let go."

He jerked around to see her. She stood alone at the side of the pool. Methos clenched himself tighter as something tried to find a new purchase, and he forced it to be satisfied with where his feet already stood. "You're trying to kill me!" he rasped. "You want me to go insane and then you can justify taking my head. I will not come apart like this!" He stumbled and almost fell. He was increasingly disoriented and he fought and clung to the tight mote of feeling that was himself.

He groaned as strands began to seep out of his pores. Sick as he felt, he desperately swallowed them back up. "YOU CAN'T TAKE ME APART!" he screamed at her. "I'll kill you! I will!"

The sensation began to change. The bits of his essence that had been drawn out rebounded back inside with bruising impact. He fell and breathed water. Spluttering, he came up. They were all there. Titania, Chichinquane and the attendants. The torches flickered and the water was dark.

Titania was not looking at him. Instead she had turned to Chichi. "Now do you understand?"

The dark woman shook her head. "No." Yet her face was wet with tears.

"He has..." Titania paused as if groping for words. "He chose this. Rather than go mad he gave himself to the darkness."

Methos staggered to the edge of the pool and pulled himself out. The attendants gave him a wide berth, reluctantly holding out cloths for him to dry himself. "Can we go now?!" he snapped at Chichi. He saw her startle, then move closer to Titania. He needed to convince her. "I am NOT possessed! This is ME!"

She shuddered visibly. "A Quickening did this to you! Perhaps a Quickening will undo it?"

"I beg your pardon?" he said, startled.

Titania was shaking her head. She took Chichinquane's arm and forced the young woman to meet her eyes. "I have never seen such a thing before. If Quickenings affect us it is usually very small. And whose head would you use? I will not offer mine. Will you offer yours? He would take it and never notice the difference."

Methos lost his footing and sank to the floor, exhaustion weighing him down. He lifted his head to glare at Titania. "I would notice if I took her head. And there is nothing wrong with me! Stop feeding her primitive fantasies!"

Titania turned and gazed at him, her face a study of composed calm. "Dream walking has drained you. You may sleep in the outer chamber, but you must leave in the morning. SHE will stay here."

"NO!" He levered himself to his feet. "She goes with me!" The attendants took his arms and he struggled against them, but they dragged him from the cavern.

Furious as he was, he was drained as Titania had said, and fell asleep amid the furs. The presence of an approaching Immortal woke him. He scrambled to his feet and moved cautiously to the entry. The caution did not help him when something heavy whirled out of the darkness and smashed into his head. He fell, his skull cracked doubly against the wall. His body in shock, he was unable to register anything beyond that he was being dragged from the room. Not off of Holy Ground, he knew as he began to regain his senses. No, he was being taken in the direction of the pool. A short while later, he and his assailant plunged together into the water.

* * *

The pool glowed around them. An ache in the air, a rumble and growl of impending violence. Chichinquane had him in her arms and brushed the water from her eyes. Methos was still dizzy and had limited control over his limbs. He could not stop her when she raised a dagger and used it to sunder him.

What was it like in the real world? No one would ever know if it was like anything. But on the mental plane, black vitriol poured from the wounds she had made. It quenched the light of the pool and plunged them into darkness. Chichinquane shone as she reached into Methos and pulled at the slimy, thick tendrils, dragging them out of him. He was getting weaker every moment. Too weak to do more than feebly bat at her as she eviscerated his mind. As she dug the blackness out, it piled up behind her. Methos stared in half-aware astonishment as the blackness behind Chichinquane heaved and took on a vaguely human form. He thought he could hear it gibbering and whispering. The shape drew tall while she did not notice it. It roiled and hardened. Then it plunged back towards Methos. Through Chichinquane.

She screamed as it burst through her. In its rush to return to Methos, it turned the young woman inside out. He felt it restoring him, finding its way back but to a now precarious balance. He welcomed his returning strength and gathered himself up. The girl's head had dipped below the water. Her glow had dimmed and become splotched as though diseased. Methos jerked the dagger from her limp fingers and raised it to strike her in revenge.

Color and a cacophony of unidentifiable sound burst around him, between them. He was forced away from Chichinquane until he fetched up against the side of the pool. Hands snatched at him and pulled him from the water. Methos cursed them and tried to fight, but he was still not recovered and they beat him into blackness.

He woke and was blinded by bright sunlight. An instant passed in which he realized he was outside pinned on his stomach before the whistle of something traveling swiftly through the air touched his ears. His back tore and he screamed in astonished pain. Hands held his arms and prevented his escape. He was so damned tired of being restrained. He lost the thought as his back was torn again and again until the pain blinded him, and he was sure he had no skin left at all on his back.

The beating stopped. Titania's voice rang in his ear, in his head. "Run, Methos. As far away as you can. Never return here."

The pain snapped again across him but his arms were released. With a cry, he staggered to his feet and fled the whistling of the switch. By the time the fear ran out, he had torn his feet to ribbons running. He burned with uncontrolled hunger that was not physical. He had fallen off the taut cord of sanity sometime... he was not quite sure when. During his run from the Pool of Dreams? Or was it when Chichinquane had let out the blackness and he had finally lost control of it?

He could not say how long he had run - hours or days - but when he encountered a pompous young nobleman on the road, he took the boy down and appropriated horse, furs and weapons for himself. After a short consideration, he took the boy, too.

* * *

The nomadic life was a pleasure. They were moving westward, intending to ultimately reach the lands of their fellow pale-skinned barbarians and see what havoc they could wreak there. Kronos and Methos had found one balance between them and it was enough to start. Kronos said where and who, Methos said when and what. Thus when Methos said they needed to have plenty of supplies for crossing the mountains, Kronos decided a small village would probably be just the sou

The village died under their swords. Methos had forbidden the use of fire in these raids, explaining that the smoke would attract too much attention before they had gathered everything they wanted. Kronos had grinned wickedly. First get what you want, THEN use it to destroy your enemies.

Methos paced through the small village feeling an annoying itch at the back of his skull. Something was wrong, somewhere. He searched among the bodies, but none had any life in them. He looked over at the pots where Caspian was busy boiling the flesh off of various skulls. Their collection was growing. He allowed himself a smug smile. The skulls were a testament to his planning skills. Methos saw Silas laughing as the village dogs alternately jumped up on him or rolled over to show him their bellies. Silas was easy to please.

He tossed his head in annoyance. The itch nagged at him. The others were clearly undisturbed. Finally, he decided to follow the faint pull to remove its demanding note. He ran towards their horses, enjoying the feel as he stretched his legs. He leaped onto his rangy black mare's back and urged her into a run away from the village.

He rode for hours. There were natural obstacles to overcome and they were frustrating, but the pull continued. He was alive with curiosity and ire by the time he rode into the full sensation of another Immortal. He raised himself high on the saddle and saw her ahead of him, standing atop a huge boulder in the center of the meadow.

Disoriented, he reined in his horse. Her clothing was strange, out of place on her small body. Her hair was in the wrong style. What was she doing, wearing such ugly clothing? He shook his head. Chichi... his student? He wanted her violently. The memory of months of her voice, warm in his ear, of her body riding his, took his breath away. The clothes she had were perfectly normal for this land, so far from her native country. They just did not suit her. He would see her dressed in far better. If he could take her, he thought suddenly, studying the confident way she held her weapon. It was a spear, tipped with a long, sword-like bronze blade, shining in the sunlight. A weapon of her homeland. He scowled and opened his lips to speak, but she was faster than he was.

"Methos," she said. It was the familiar, warm voice but now it reached into his head, echoing. He jerked the reins back as pain sliced through his thoughts. His mind twitched and gave open its memories of what had happened since he had last seen her. The pain threatened to paralyze him. He refused it, refused to take the easy path of retreating into the dark. One memory, of a voice he hated with all of his being, slithered ahead of the others. As long as I can hurt you, I will own you. You want to be free of me? Don't feel. Oh, yes. He remembered THAT lesson.

He ignored the memories that threatened to blind him and rode his horse full-tilt towards the boulder. Chichinquane watched his approach without fear. She swung the blade of her spear at his head and he smashed it aside, but she was no longer there. She caught him and took him down, the long grasses slashed at their skin but were not thick enough to break their fall. Methos grunted as his back impacted on the ground but scrambled to his feet, jabbing his sword at Chichinquane and hissing like a snake in fury. She evaded his sword and the wooden end of her spear cracked his skull. At the same time, she somehow reached into his mind and stirred his memories. Faces loomed in his mind. He howled at them, knowing they were long dead. He closed with her to render her spear useless, but found it difficult to use his sword. After several very close calls he finally managed to pin the spear under his feet. He drove Chichinquane to her knees and stood at her back, his sword to her throat.

"You can live, if you serve me," he hissed into her ear. He was determined to have her.

"No," she said calmly. She slammed her head back into his face.

Nearly blind with pain and rage, he put all of his strength into his strike. Her head went flying.

Standing over her body, he gritted his teeth and clenched his muscles, ready to ride out the pain of the Quickening. Then it hit and his battered and disoriented mind was torn asunder. Layers wrenched and peeled as though she was slashing at him even now. It went on and on until finally it washed cleanly through him. He crumpled in the grass, his mind empty and blank. He could see the grass around him, smell the dirt under him, feel the body he lay over. Then he saw Silas' face come in front of him, and he blanked out.

There were sounds sometimes. A deep voice spoke to him. He could not make out the words, but he liked the voice, so he listened for it. It distracted him from the heavy mass that lay over him. Over time, he began to be able to hear some of what it said. It talked about dogs and horses. It talked about the joy of fighting. It said his name and he studied the sound with pleasure.

Then one day, another voice intruded. It was angry and cold. At first he did not want to listen, but he caught the sound of the other voice and so he paid attention.

The angry one said, "He is vulnerable! And that means WE are vulnerable!"

His favorite answered equably, "He will be fine, brother. He just took a bad Quickening. Leave him alone."

Vulnerable. The first time he had heard that angry voice, he had been vulnerable. He remembered suddenly the violation of his starved and feverish body. He thought, Kronos! That was Kronos and he attacks vulnerability! And only Silas is here to stand between us.

The mass - whatever it was - holding him immobile seemed immense. He heaved against it. He fought and struggled until at last he began to close the gaping distance between his mind and body. Slowly, oh so slowly, he began to gain the other senses of his body besides hearing. The Presence of another Immortal. The feeling of furs under his fingers. The weight of the blanket. The awkward angle at which one leg lay. The smell of singed meat. He turned his head and looked up into Silas' eyes.

The big blond man grinned down at him from a face that suddenly looked much younger than it had when Methos had last seen it, filled with anguished concern before the emptiness had taken him. "Welcome back, brother."

He tried to answer but his throat locked up. Silas helped him sit up and gave him water. After a moment he could speak. "S'good to be back."

He had recovered, but still he could feel a cracked, split sensation running through the core of his being. He was steady for now, but how long would he be able to hold it? Over time the sensation decreased in intensity and he began to forget about it, except some nights when it seemed to throb. When they painted their faces, he painted his half-blue and left the other side clear. "You look like a great bruise, Methos!" Silas had commented, laughing.


End file.
